You know how moms of humans sometimes talk about feeling guilty and torn leaving their offspring, while going to work/vacation/out for much needed drinks away from the homestead?

I’ve often thought these women were fucked in the head for not wanting time away from their children until my little ones started pulling this shit whenever I try to leave the mini manse (and yes, my babies are cats. Stop judging).

Ted and New Cat have a perch right by my front window that allows them to look over the mighty kingdom of the side yard.

The perching isn’t always this polite.

When hearing my keys clink together New New typically scrams, knowing that it’s time to nap the day away.

Would you leave already?I have some very serious snoozing to do.

On the other hand Mr. Bear, acts as if he’s aboard the sinking Titanic with my departure being the last time we’ll ever see one another before drowning into the abyss of dark ocean waters (he takes after his mother in the drama department). So as soon as he hears the key hit the doorknob, he immediately engages me in a stare down.

Goodbye my love.

Then he quickly tip toes like he’s walking the plank over the windowsill with high hopes of preventing my exit.

Being the resident cray cray cat lady of Nashville, it’s a given that I shove my precious pussy Mr. Bear into a costume on any and all occasions that arise.

Unwillingly the cutest, calmest bat cat in all of his glory.

Now because my Teddy is the most laid back pussy you’ll ever meet, over the years I’ve been able to shove him into a sombrero, a tie, a Santa suit, bunny ears and last Halloween, into a Robin Thicke costume (complimenting my Miley – and yes, if you didn’t already know or believe my previous statement, I am bat shit crazy over my feline. I couldn’t love him more if I birthed him myself. Judge away).

But I knew this holiday season was going to be different because Ted and I acquired a new resident this year in the form of a very annoying, extremely lovable, mentally challenged (think Lloyd Christmas from Dumb and Dumber) tuxedo cat we cleverly named New Cat. Wondering how I could costume a trio, my gal pal over at Apple Pie and Napalm suggested Catman and Robin, with me chiming in as Catwoman, obviously.

Downloaded templates from the Internet, velcro strips and felt were all that was needed to outfit my super heroes.

I bonded the Catman pieces to felt with fabric glue.

And then cut velcro strips that easily stuck to the felt backed masks and collars.

Hoping NC was high from glue fumes, my fingers were crossed that he would bond with his costume before I tried to slide him into it.

You want me to put what where??

After thirty minutes of trying to wrangle New New into his Robin collar, I should have known by his crazy eyes just how well this photo shoot would go…

What the fuck is happening to me?!

While Ted patiently waited in his full on Catman garb, I wrestled New Cat WWE style to get the damn mask around his head.

.0001 second into the shoot and Mr. Tuxedo was already one-eyed.

Three seconds into the shoot, I thought this was going to be a slightly less stressful event, as New Cat settled down.

Until second five when NC decided to try to entice Catman into a fist fight.

Masked crusader brawl about to break out.

Staying in character, I tried to strong armed the ferocious felines into sitting still enough for one more shot….which might have worked if New Cat hadn’t somehow become more slippery than a greased pig.

Taking the back door exit. No wonder Robin was never the star – he was a big pussy!

So what’s a crazy cat lady to do when one of her pussies is being beyond cooperative during a photoshoot?

Do it again, naturally.

Trying to get my eyes clawed out is one of my many specialties.

As you can see my second attempt failed more miserably than my first and Mr. Tuxedo meowed so loudly my ears were ringing.

FUCK. THIS. NOISE.

Seeing that there was no coaxing my new pussy into anymore costume shenanigans, TB and I went back to what we do best.

But, like most of the country winter weather was headed Nashville’s way.

The snow was already falling up north.

Because winter weather makes folks in Nashville lose their sanity with even just the mention of frozen precipitation (I shit you not. The grocery stores were nearly out of milk and bread yesterday and local schools cancelled Monday classes by noon Sunday. Yes, you read that right), I joined in on the crazy.

It started by me taking in a soaking wet, shivering, hungry stray that sat by my door in 17 degree weather, greeting me upon my arrival home (and no, this isn’t the same stray I posted about last week. Someone is dumping cats in my apartment complex and if I catch you doing it, I WILL END YOU). Knowing I couldn’t let the little guy freeze to death I scooped him up, dried him off and set up shop for him in the bathroom.

Hello? This paw is still wet.

The next morning I took him to the vet to be sure he didn’t have leukemia, kitty AIDS and got him vaccinated.

After he received a clean bill of health, I brought him back home – adding another cray to the notch in my already crazy cat lady belt.

WTF have you brought into my house?

While I let kit cats sniff one another out, Ted was cautious at first glance.

Then New Cat started to explore the mini-manse.

Perched politely.

Ted became quite the host after a few minutes, overseeing the little guy’s every move. Even in the makeshift litter pan I put in the guest bath.

Yep. That looks about right.

While Ted and New Cat never even uttered a meow, hiss or low growl at one another, our house guest made it extremely clear he would rather be outside in the zero degree temperature.

Caged in the warmest of jails. Poor thing.

Spending the first day and night in a window, meowing the meow of his people to be let outside.

Of course this cat was forced to stay inside a warm apartment with ample food and water. The horror!

I am on the search to find him a home – anyone want a sweet little kit cat between one and two years old? I’d keep him but Ted’s got a food allergy (so low maintenance, just like his mama) and his food costs $60 per bag. Can’t swing that for two cats. So c’mon…who wants a new fur baby?

What better way to end a weekend than with football playoffs? Even little B & B in Iowa couldn’t tear their eyes away from the Packers/49ers game.

Go Green Bay Go!

After wrangling cats this morning, I was greeted with a slight dusting of snow, frozen shut doors and an engine that refused to start for 10 minutes.

No problem for a former Iowa girl.

While I poured a bucket of hot water down my driver’s side door to gain entry, here’s hoping I can open it when I want to go home from work tonight.

Hope you are finding yourself warm (with a pantry stocked of bread and a fridge full of milk) wherever you are on this winter day.

March marks my seventh month in the blogosphere, which I suppose means I’m still relatively new at this. When I started posting, I not only wondered what in the hell I was going to talk about daily (like I ever shut up) I also wondered who in the world would be interested enough (aside from my mother and the required family member readership) to come hang and take a peek into my life.

Trying to get a lift onto my dad’s back after honky tonkin’ for my sister’s bachelorette party.

#2. I often make an asshole out of myself on accident. Labeling them as blonde moments makes me feel better.

It’s JAWS! Scary shark! Wait, where’d the shark go?

#3. Rarely do I drink ’til I puke. But when I was younger and didn’t know any better, thank god someone was there to capture the Kodak moment.

My bestie, Scooby holding my hair back. While laughing. Loudly.

#4. I’ve been crazy about cats my entire life.

Cray cray in training with Ernie.

#5. Richie Sambora (yeah, the one from Bon Jovi) once put a guitar pick he used during a show into my hand. I said into my hand! He didn’t throw it into the crowd and I happened to catch it, he walked over and handed it to me. This was in the Heather Locklear vs. Denise Richards days. I was pretty sure I hated Richie for cheating on his gorgeous wife, Heather (I mean if she gets cheated on, where’s that leave the rest of us gals?) and knew I hated him for dating his ex-wife’s friend during the divorce. Then Richie’s hand touched mine and well….

I. DIED.

I fell so much in love with the stupid pick, I had it made into a necklace. It’s my personal heirloom to pass down to my cat children. Teddy refuses to wear it around his neck because he thinks it’s too “heavy.” CATS.

Not too heavy for this neck.

#6. I have a trashy habit (does this surprise anyone? Anyone?!) of cutting down bags of chips as I stuff them into my mouth. This not only alleviates your wrist from getting greasy, this tactic is much more time efficient when trying to inhale the crumbs at the bottom of the bag. Trust me.

I know, I know…why didn’t you think about this before?!

Breakfast of Champions

#7. I couldn’t love my cat Teddy more than if I’d birthed him myself. Yeah, yeah, I know. C.R.A.Z.Y.

My love for the feline species started young and as far back as I can remember, cats have always been in my life. I suppose instead of doll babies, I was busy trying to burp a kitten.

Crazy about cats as a child.

Taking cats down slides as playmates (I apparently was desperate for a sibling, you think?) was as natural to me as all get out, further solidifying my future as a maniacal lover of all things that meow.

Oh, you’re gonna play with me and you’re gonna like it.

So it’s no surprise that my entire family is well aware of my life long obsession with my cats (I mean all typical women love cats and candles, right?).

My very thoughtful cousin Dom texted this picture to me on a recent Sunday afternoon.

Cozy, cat lady winter attire.

It took all of .02 seconds to wonder why he thought of me when he saw it hanging at Target.

My internal dialogue was saying “I really love leopard print. And I REALLY am crazy about my cat but who in the hell would want one of these jumpsuits, let alone wear it around the house?” Apparently, me. Because externally I couldn’t help myself from stashing it into my cart (while looking around to make sure no one I knew was watching this grown ass woman’s pajama selection) and galloping to the check-out.